The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I don’t know. Seems kinda funny hanging out this late at night around the painted rock with your lacrosse gear.”

  “Dude?” He shot me a look of disgust.

  “Mind if I join you? I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

  “Whatever,” he said, looking back down at his glowing screen.

  “Who is this Gardiner dude and why’d they name a rock after him?” I asked.

  “Why do you assume Gardiner’s a dude?”

  I laughed. “Aren’t all these old monuments around New England named after some fat old white guy?”

  He laughed. “Thaddeus Gardiner graduated from Chadwick back in the nineteenth century. Legend has it that he was the first student to deface this rock.”

  “What a rebel.”

  I leaned back against the boulder and pulled out a smoke. I only smoked when I was drinking, and rarely ever at home. An army of crickets chirped in the woods. I looked up and saw a ribbon of stars shimmering between the canopy of trees. It looked like a river of liquid gems moving through the sky. In a way, I was glad this college guy was standing next to me, because being there all alone, that late at night, would have spooked the hell out of me.

  “Later, dude,” the guy said, grabbing his bag and stick and wobbling down the path toward the college.

  “Hey, where you going?” I called out. “Aren’t you going to wait for your friend?”

  “Hell no,” he said, swinging his stick so hard against a nearby tree that it broke in two. “I’m going to kill the bitch next time I see her.” He left the jagged, broken stick along the path before disappearing into the darkness.

  “He just left you there?” Armstrong asks.

  “Yeah. And I didn’t like being out there all alone. So I headed back to the brewery. I shouldn’t have been meeting her anyway.”

  “And you didn’t see Mycah or Cordell walking along the path that night?”

  I shook my head.

  “Were you angry with her?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “She was constantly late whenever we met. Sometimes she wouldn’t even show and so I got used to being stood up. But yeah, I was pissed, but not as pissed as that lacrosse player. I wanted her to terminate that pregnancy.”

  “Did it ever cross your mind that the guy with the lacrosse stick was also waiting to meet Mycah?”

  “Never occurred to me.”

  “It’s the same lacrosse stick we found with her blood on it.”

  “I would assume.”

  “Don’t you think you should have come forward with this information?”

  “In a perfect world, Detective, but I have a wife and kids to think about. I moved them all the way across country at great expense so I could chase this stupid dream of mine of opening a brewery. My life would have been ruined if I’d come forward.”

  “It still might be ruined.”

  “True. Sometimes you bite the dog and sometimes the dog rips your throat out.”

  “You really think she’d leave you?”

  “Like you really give a shit.” I laugh bitterly. “I have no doubt my wife would leave me. She and the kids would move back to Seattle and I’d never see them again.”

  “Next question,” he says, looking down at a stack of papers on the table. He pulls out a book. “Could you identify this lacrosse player if you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark that night and the only light was the moon and his cell phone. And as I mentioned, I’d been drinking pretty heavy all day.”

  “How much had you consumed?”

  I shrug, embarrassed to admit the truth. “I drink throughout the day, so I can’t really give you a hard and fast number.”

  “If you had to guess.”

  “Ten, fifteen beers maybe, throughout the course of the day.”

  He whistles. “Can’t be a very good thing to own a brewery and have an alcohol problem.”

  “Who said I had a problem?”

  “Denial’s the first sign.”

  I laugh, because to deny it even further would only strengthen his hand.

  “Maybe if I showed you a few photos of the lacrosse team, you might be able to identify him?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Do you think he’s the murderer?”

  “It’s possible.” He opens the book and slides it across the table.

  I examine all the photographs of the players and struggle to recognize the guy. They appear to me as good-looking jocks with affable smiles. The minorities and dark-haired individuals I rule out, leaving me with a couple dozen others who could be the one. The more I look, the more I realize that I don’t really know which player I saw that night.

  “You said he was tall,” Armstrong says.

  “Little taller than me.”

  “And you’re about six two?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “That eliminates all but five players.” He uses his pen to put an X next to the remaining players. “Two of these guys were not in town that night, which leaves us with these three guys.”

  “Still can’t be sure. I was very drunk that night.”

  “What about this one?” he says, circling the photo.

  I lean over and examine the profile. His name is William Allen Price and he’s listed as six four. In the photo, he has short blond hair framing a movie-star face. He’s smiling in it, revealing perfectly white teeth.

  “Yeah, that might be him,” I say. “You think this guy did it?”

  “Not sure.” He closes the book. “I’m almost certain that he was the guy waiting for Mycah that night.”

  I feel my ire rising. What the hell is he talking about? Mycah had called this lacrosse player as well?

  “They were hooking up, or at least that’s what college students call it these days. A euphemism for casual sex. They managed to keep it a secret for some time.”

  “Booty call.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The ghetto term for casual sex.”

  “Booty call. Learn something every day.”

  “Whore,” I mutter under my breath.

  “If she were a guy, everyone would be congratulating her.”

  “She’s still a whore.”

  “Not really.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “The method of payment, I suppose.” He sits back and smiles. “Did you really think she was in love with you?”

  I look up and clench my fists under the table.

  “It seemed puzzling to me that she was dating a gay guy.”

  “Mycah was a user,” I say offhandedly.

  “Somebody made her pay, because the blood on that lacrosse stick was definitely hers.”

  “It was that college kid’s lacrosse stick, so it has to be him.”

  “The kid said he left you standing against that rock after he snapped his stick against the tree.”

  “You knew who it was all along. This is bullshit.” I slap an open palm on the table, causing the papers to jump. “I went back to the brewery and drank.”

  “All the beer geeks were gone?”

  “Yeah. They locked the place up and left.”

  “How do I know you went back? The place was empty, and you certainly had the motive to kill her.”

  “So did that lacrosse player. She obviously screwed him over too. Maybe the kid she was carrying was his.”

  “Yes, he had as much motive to kill her as you did. In fact, she might have tried to get her revenge on him and the team.”

  “Revenge for what?” I ask.

  “There were reports that the lacrosse team held a ‘ghetto party’ last year at one of the frat houses. The college looked into the matter, but no one confessed to having been involved. Everyone held their tongue.”

  “So the college didn’t punish them?”

  “They put the frat and the team members on probation, despite having no evidence that this ‘ghetto party’
ever occurred. Many of the alumni cried foul and threatened to hold back their donations to the school unless the administration reversed their decision. Naturally, the school caved in, and when they did, all hell broke loose on campus. Students blamed the administration, specifically the director of diversity. They called for her ouster, saying she failed to keep them safe from these micro-aggressive behaviors.”

  “What are micro-aggressive behaviors?”

  He shrugs. “Behaviors that cause hurt feelings. Being racially offended by certain statements or actions. College kids are offended easily these days.”

  “What did they want this diversity director to do?”

  “Shut down the lacrosse team. Completely obliterate all forms of racism and sexism on campus, no matter the method. Basically do away with the First Amendment. The students even made signs with their demands and paraded them around campus.”

  “Sounds like fascism to me.”

  “Call it what you will,” he says. “I bet you can guess who led the protests against the college.”

  “Mycah Jones.”

  “And her boyfriend Cordell.”

  “Maybe Mycah was secretly a racist who only liked to screw white guys.”

  Armstrong sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and laughed. “That’s a preference, not racism.”

  “Discriminatory, to say the least.”

  “Not in the legal sense, or any sense.”

  “But when you go around throwing stones . . .”

  “I hate to tell you this, but everyone on that ivy campus lives in a glass house.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “You fell madly in love with Mycah.”

  I stay perfectly still, trying to remain calm despite my animosity toward this guy. He already knows this and is rubbing it in my face.

  “She gave you the best sex you ever had and then became pregnant. I bet she did things in the bedroom you secretly desired. Things you might only see in movies.”

  “You should really watch what you say, Detective.”

  “Liked to role-play. I bet she even pretended to be a runaway slave. She asked you to be rough with her. Slap her around and whip her as if she’d tried to run away from the plantation.”

  I glare at him in stunned silence. How did he know all this? Having an affair was one thing, but if Leah ever found out about the kinky stuff . . .

  “Did she let you use the whip?”

  “Surfer Boy tell you all this?”

  “Doesn’t matter how I know, Clay, it only matters that I do.”

  I’m unable to take any more of this conversation. “Am I free to go?”

  “It might be better if you told us what you did with her.”

  “I told you, I didn’t harm a hair on that girl’s head.” I get up and move toward the door.

  “The truth will eventually come out, and when it does, the consequences will be much worse. Better to talk about this now.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Sure, Clay, but don’t go very far. We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  I storm out and make my way back to the brewery. Ben is taking a coffee break at my desk when I walk in.

  “Everything all right, boss?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I say. “How’d the transfer go?”

  “Peachy. I cleaned that son of a bitch out so thoroughly that not a living organism could thrive in there.”

  “Good.” I grab a mug and pour myself a beer. I kick him out of my leather chair and sit down. “I have a lot of paperwork to do.”

  “Little early for the Information, isn’t it?”

  “Say what?”

  “Shit’s a beast, boss. She’ll kick your ass.”

  “You my mother now?”

  “Hell no. Just one knowledgeable motherfucker when it comes to getting drunk.”

  “Okay, Einstein, go unload those pallets of grain like I asked.”

  I watch him saunter off, coffee cup in hand. I grab the tall stack of unpaid bills and start to go through them. It takes my mind off everything. I sip the beer, a circular glow running counterclockwise in my muddled brain. It helps me forget about that humiliating interrogation. But not for long.

  Recently, I’ve been suffering moments of panic when I feel as if my whole life is crashing down around me. Mycah deserves to die for what she did. I hope she’s buried deep in a ditch somewhere.

  I finish the mug and pour myself another. I gaze at the framed picture sitting on my desk of Leah and the kids. Jesus. It suddenly hits me what I’ve done to them. Poor little bastards. I collapse into the leather chair and contemplate my limited options. I’m fairly certain now that I’ll lose everything that’s near and dear to me.

  LEAH

  Friday, October 23, 2:22 p.m.

  I CLIMB BEHIND THE WHEEL AND DRIVE UNTIL WE ARRIVE AT THE HOUSE where Mycah has been staying. I park along the curb and stare up at it. Everything is moving so fast that I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing. Clarissa rests her hand on my arm and it gets me thinking. What am I doing here? With my next-door neighbor? But I know I must help these poor women before something bad happens. So my life can return to normal.

  We exit the car and make our way up the stairs. The gun feels like a grenade in my pocket. I know that these two women are familiar with each other, and that there’s considerable hostility between them. But to what extent?

  I knock on the front door and after a few beats it opens.

  Mycah’s eyes gravitate toward Clarissa. “What is she doing here?”

  “Let us in, Mycah. We need to talk,” Clarissa says.

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk to either of you.”

  “This is important. It could save your life,” I say.

  “I don’t care about my life anymore.”

  “Then consider my life and all the other lives that may be in jeopardy,” I say.

  She shuts the door. After a few seconds pass, she lets us inside. Clarissa and I sit on a soiled sofa pushed back against the front window. Every window is covered with curtains or bedsheets, blocking the light from entering the room. A chipped coffee table separates Mycah from the two of us. She goes into the kitchen and returns moments later with three cans of Coke.

  “I can’t believe you’re still alive,” Clarissa says.

  “Have a soda. They’re cold.” Mycah places the cans down on the table. She opens one and then settles on the couch with a cigarette.

  “Have you been sleeping with my husband?” Clarissa says.

  “Wow.” Mycah laughs. “How to ease into the conversation.”

  “I need to know before we continue on,” Clarissa says.

  “Your husband’s a pig. Why did you even marry a guy like him?”

  “I was a young college student just like you when I met him.”

  “Isn’t that a delicious irony,” Mycah says. “The pot calling the kettle black.”

  “I was in love. What’s your excuse?”

  “That husband of yours harassed me, and he didn’t stop until I finally agreed to sleep with him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course you don’t believe me,” she says. “You berated me constantly in class and called my essay a joke.”

  “I was mad at you for fawning all over my husband,” Clarissa says. “You think I didn’t notice you shaking your ass at him every chance you got?”

  “That first night we went out, he must have slipped something in my drink, because I woke up the next morning with my head fuzzy and barely able to remember anything.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” I ask.

  “I don’t trust the police. They’re all racist bastards anyways. Besides, it was his word—a highly respected college professor—against mine.”

  “You’ve been trying to get me fired for months now,” Clarissa says. “And now to find out that you’ve been sleeping with my husband.”

  “Damn straight you should be fired. You let the lacrosse tea
m wear blackface and host a ghetto party.”

  “I’ve been working my ass off to change the culture at that school. Change doesn’t happen overnight,” Clarissa says. “Besides, there was no evidence that party ever occurred.”

  “There was plenty of evidence. You should have talked to more students and then demanded they shut down that frat house. You should have threatened to step down if they didn’t meet our demands and dump the lacrosse team. But no, all you care about is your paycheck and your social standing on campus.”

  “How well do you two actually know each other?” I ask.

  “Mycah led a student protest on campus to get me fired,” Clarissa says.

  “The lacrosse players held a secret ‘ghetto party’ last year and this traitor took no action against them,” Mycah says. “How much more of this shit can us black people take?”

  “What was I to do? We couldn’t get anyone to admit that it took place. Then the alumni association got involved and threatened to sue the college, as well as withhold their annual donations. It was completely out of my hands.”

  “You should have insisted they be disciplined.”

  “Sometimes you have to live to fight another day.”

  “You were supposed to be on our side. Instead, you sat on your sorry black ass and maintained the status quo.”

  “This is crazy,” I say. “We’re supposed to be supporting each other, not bickering like children.”

  “Then let’s be real,” Mycah says. “Her husband is the reason we’re in this terrible situation. He’s the one who murdered Cordell.”

  Clarissa stands, her fists clenched. “You manipulative whore. You’ll sleep with anyone to get what you want.”

  “I don’t have to sit here and be attacked by Uncle Tom’s wife,” Mycah says. “Her husband threatened to run me out of school if I didn’t sleep with him. He said I would lose my scholarship and any chance of attending law school if I turned him down.”

  “Why would Mycah lie about this?” I ask Clarissa.

  “That’s what snakes do, Leah. They lie coiled in the grass, waiting to strike.”

  “Look at the way Russell abuses you. Look how he forced you to have sex with other men. Face facts, Clarissa. The man’s a scoundrel,” I say.

  Clarissa fights back the tears.

  “He attacked Cordell that night with a baseball bat. He was furious after I broke it off with him, jealous that I’d decided to stay with Cordell. He threatened to kill me, like he killed Cordell, if I didn’t stay in this house and wait for him to return. He told me he was trying to work out a plan for me,” Mycah says.